He threw it high into the air, a silver ring against the vast, indifferent sky. It spun, catching the sun, and then sailed far, far away, landing with a soft thud in the tall grass of the Yamuna’s bank.
His mother, now grey and hollow-eyed, would watch from the balcony. “You have become a ghost, my son,” she’d say. “You live only for the mark.” nishaan
Arjun felt his pulse become the drumbeat. He did not confront Sukha. He did not draw his chakram . Instead, he waited. He threw it high into the air, a